It all really began yesterday when, for some truly unfathomable reason, I had a huge craving for a raspberry tart. I don't ever crave raspberry tarts. Maybe it was the nip of autumn in the air and the intensity of related aromas: fresh rain, newly fallen leaves, moist soil, ripe apples. I have no idea, really. But I wanted a raspberry tart, damn it. I wanted one so much that I even went into the local Cooperative store to see if they had any. The closest I could find was a strawberry or black current tart. It wouldn't do. I ended the day disappointed. But don't worry; we'll come back to this.
This morning we had arranged to view a house for let in the village of Shipton-under-Wychwood. We'd check out transportation online and found we could take a local bus there. We woke early in order to flag down the 9:12 bus as it raced through Kingham. As typical urbanites, we left the cottage at 8:45 so we would give ourselves enough time. At 8:46, we arrived at the village green bus stop.
Our first challenge was trying to determine which side of the road the bus would stop on. Either could have worked as the roads around the triangle-shaped green could lead to just about anywhere in the Cotswolds. As we waited for the bus, we read the schedule posted to the bus stop. It would appear that one bus company offered local service on Thursdays and Fridays only, while another advertised it came through town on Wednesdays. Hmmm.
We set of to the local shop to see if they could provide some insight. "Ah, the X8 used to run everyday, but like a lot of local routes, it's been cut back. So, no bus today."
Phil had been certain he had read there was a bus we could take, but was slightly ready to concede that the schedule could have changed. Nonetheless, he wanted to at least wait near the stop until a few minutes after the bus was due.
Nothing.
We started to walk back toward our cottage, when Phil, for no known reason, looked over his shoulder in time to see a small bus whizzing through town. He barely got a wave in, but the driver, use to watching for such signs of life, came to a quick stop. He informed us that, yes, he was on his way to Shipton, and welcomed us aboard. He didn't seem at all concerned to learn that no one in the village seemed aware that a bus ran on Mondays.
"How much for a return fare?" Phil asked.
"Ah, don't really know. They didn't give me a fare card when I started today," said our driver. "Does two quid each sound fair?"
Phil reached into his pocket for change. He had three pounds and some smaller change. The driver looked in his hand and declared, "Three pounds will do, if you're good with that."
We were soon racing out of the village on the Villager Bus, a service run by volunteers. We sped down a narrow, wildly curving road full of dips and bumps and turns. The bus did have seat belts for a reason.
We screamed to a stop at the edge of the next village, and a man and a woman joined us on the bus. Both pensioners, they showed their cards to the driver. Travel on buses is free once you reach a certain age (it varies between about 60 and 66). Needless to say, the 3 pounds may have been the only cash the driver collected on our trip.
The woman who had boarded gave a warm hello to us, and we were soon chatting. She seemed quite intrigued that we were travelling around the UK and not using a car. Phil asked what has become the de rigueur question: Do you have a Canadian connection? She thought for a moment, before declaring that she did not...except that her parents had both been teachers at a school for "troubled boys" who were sent on to work at a farm in Canada. I didn't raise the story of my grandfather who was dealt a similar fate.
We were soon in Shipton-under-Wychwood with the driver declaring that he would pick us up on the other side of the road at noon on his return trip.
Shipton was an interesting village, seemingly made up of several villages and hamlets. The house we had gone to see wasn't really what we were looking for and the walk to the train station was considerably longer than we had expected. However, we did enjoy walking around the area while waiting for our return high-speed bus service back.
Right on time, the driver appeared. Only thing was, he was on the same side of the road as he had dropped us off. He noticed us and waved. So we crossed the road and boarded. He advised that he would eventually be coming down our side, but was first driving through a neighbourhood to drop a few passengers off.
Our new-found friend was on the bus having spent the hour and 45 minutes allotted before the bus returned shopping and having a coffee with a friend. We asked her if the pub in her village of Churchill was open for lunch and if it was possible to walk to Kingham from there. She said yes to both questions, but wryly warned that you had to order certain things at the pub. When pressed, she didn't really offer up suggestions, but we took it to mean: stick with the basics.
The Chequers pub was really delightful inside, filled with great photos and antiques. There were only a couple of other people inside, but despite this, the restaurant was offering a 3-course prix-fix lunch, with a RASPBERRY TART as the dessert portion. Seriously, I don't remember ever seeing raspberry tart on a menu, let alone the dessert of the day!
And, most important, it was positively divine. Strong, sweet raspberry centre, a buttery shortbread crust and an equally buttery crumble topping. I can still smell it. Mmmmmm.
So, a bus that shouldn't have arrived did arrive, flew us through villages, allowed us to meet a lovely local women who then made us intrigued with her village, so we stopped for lunch. And I got my raspberry tart.
Coincidence? I think not.
Serendipity. Loved reading that little story!
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